


Epiphany

by FenHarelMaGhilana (WhitethornWolf)



Series: Fortune Favour Me [9]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 00:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/448999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhitethornWolf/pseuds/FenHarelMaGhilana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seeing her family's possessions bartered in the Denerim markets brings the reality of Eilin's situation home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Epiphany

The merchant's stall was deliberately placed outside the awning in Denerim's market square to catch the sunlight. It was a trick Eilin had seen many times at the markets in Highever, and it worked: she'd seen at least a dozen women and children drawn to the array of glittering trinkets, and it seemed she was no exception.

The man's wares were fairly generic; pretty things one could find in any Fereldan market if you knew where to look. Yet the craftsmanship was poor, even she could see that; cheap imitations of Orlesian jewelry painted with gold leaf to disguise uneven edges and finger marks. She'd never been one for jewelry, if only because she was taught to be practical, or maybe because she simply disliked tasteless displays of wealth.

No, it wasn't the jewelry that caught her eye. It was a glass vase at the very back of the stall, a beautiful thing carefully molded into the shape of a swan. Orlesian, naturally; there were no master glassblowers in Ferelden that she knew of. That was far more to her taste; pretty but still useful, even if only for holding flowers.

 

"That catch yer fancy, serah?"

 

Eilin shrugged, rolling the vase between her palms. Her mother had loved things like this. For a moment she considered buying it, if only out of sentiment. She doubted her companions would appreciate it, though.

Then she saw the crest stamped on the underside of the swan's wing, and for a moment thought her heart had literally stopped.

"Where did you get this?" she demanded.

The merchant took a step back at her harsh tone, his small eyes flicking from her face to the sword at her side.

 

"I—I got it from a merchant up at Amaranthine City," he stammered. "I-it's an Orlesian piece. Straight from Val Royeaux, m-made only by the finest glassblowers."

 

Eilin already knew that. She remembered the day when Father had given it to Mother, one of the many things he brought back from his trip.

 

She set the vase back down, afraid she would drop it if her hands shook any more, and stared at his goods, noticing amongst them the vine-and-leaf pattern on a brooch—a brooch she'd seen many a time on Mother's cloak—and a letter opener made of silverite.

"A ridiculous waste of silverite," she remembered commenting to her Father, as he opened letters in his study, and he laughed and said she was Fereldan to the core.

She felt sick.

 

"Are you ready to go?"

 

She would have jumped in surprise at Alistair's sudden appearance at her elbow had all her concentration not been focused on that letter opener. And for once her heart was not hammering because of his closeness, and the brush of his fingers on her wrist had nothing to do with the sweat beading on her palms.

She picked up the short blade, turned it over in gloved fingers, and found the laurel wreaths carved into the hilt, just as she'd dreaded.

 

"A fine piece," the merchant said nervously, his gaze darting back and forth between the two heavily armed people in front of him. "Made in Orlais also."

 

 _No,_ Eilin wanted to say. _It was a gift from Arl Bryland._

 

She took a step back, dropping the blade as if it burned her, and fled.

The market square blurred and shifted before her, and the blood thrummed in her ears. She dove into the crowd of people, bumping many and shoving aside some, overcome by the need to get away. Cool shadows replaced the suddenly unbearable heat of the sun, and she leaned against the warehouse door and pushed her knuckles into her eyes until spots danced under her lids. She didn't look up at the sound of heavy footsteps.

 

"Eilin?" Alistair, and his fingers biting into her shoulders, and his face close to hers—it should have brought her a thrill or maybe even a blush, but all she felt was horror and fury and deep down, some measure of despair.

"Eilin, what's wrong? Talk to me."

 

His voice sounded odd, like she was hearing him from a great distance, and her voice sounded equally strange. She was trying to explain; to make him understand the way her gut twisted when she realised it was her family's possessions reduced to merchant's wares, and how sick she felt at the thought of her home violated by bandits and scavengers, and how everything she cared about was lost, all lost. But the only sounds her throat made were sobs so deep they shook her entire body, and all she could do was cling to Alistair, so tightly she must have hurt him. But Alistair, Maker bless him, understood. He always did.


End file.
